


Where Angels Fear to Tread

by localmothman



Series: Where Angels Fear to Tread [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Teenage Losers Club (IT)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-16 11:22:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21035435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localmothman/pseuds/localmothman
Summary: Deep down, Richie Tozier was harshly aware that he loved Stanley Uris. His heart ached for him in a way he couldn’t describe, but he dared not speak it. He dared not speak about the way the gentle timbre of Stan’s voice echoed in his mind as he lulled to sleep. Certainly wouldn’t admit how a look from his tawny eyes would make his heart skip a beat. And he especially couldn’t bring himself to admit the real reason why his eyes constantly wandered- lingered. A look was harmless, right? Nobody would know- it could be his secret.But somebody did know.Because sometimes- despite the constant eye-rolling, and groaning at the trashmouth’s performance- Stanley Uris would look, too.





	1. Introduction - Don't Speak About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " Deep down, Richie Tozier was harshly aware that he loved Stanley Uris. His heart ached for him in a way he couldn’t describe, but he dared not speak it. He dared not speak about the way the gentle timbre of Stan’s voice echoed in his mind as he lulled to sleep. Certainly wouldn’t admit how a look from his tawny eyes would make his heart skip a beat. And he especially couldn’t bring himself to admit the real reason why his eyes constantly wandered- lingered. A look was harmless, right? Nobody would know- it could be his secret."
> 
> This chapter serves to establish the foundation that I will build on in later chapters! I promise it won't all be so doom and gloom. I envision this story progressing from young losers to adults- and I hope you'll join me on that journey.

It had been almost three years since _It _ happened. _It_ had become an unspoken elephant in every room where the Losers met. The memories of Neibolt lingered around in the air- stale, and heavy. It was difficult to look in Bill Denbrough’s eyes and not see the cherub glance of Georgie staring back at you. One arm ripped clean off- still wearing his little, yellow raincoat and galoshes. The sight of the small boy wading through the darkness of that cavern was burned into Richie’s memory. The pale light from above illuminated his tiny coat- as if he truly were an angel. If Georgie was okay… maybe they would all be okay. Bill would be okay. Bill had dedicated the better part of a year to finding the boy- adamant that Georgie was out there somewhere. Scared, alone, but alive.  
  
Deep down, Richie had always known it was a lost cause. Still, it hurt to think about. Most of his friends’ younger brothers could be annoying- but not Georgie. He was alright- liked to hang around a little too long sometimes, but who could blame him? His older brother was Bill Denbrough- and even though Richie would never be so mushy as to admit it- he loved Billy the way everybody loved Billy. Bill was their fearless leader- somebody to look up to. You never had to worry with Big Bill around- you’d always have a good time. A great time.  
  
Richie could clearly remember one afternoon in particular- he and Bill had been up in Bill’s room, laughing loudly and without care. About what exactly he couldn’t remember, though he had an inkling it had something to do with the movie they had just returned from- _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ The Man of a Thousand Voices had been unleashed in full swing that night. Richie simply couldn’t resist imitating the toons that had inspired him to begin impersonations in the first place. _He could do a damn good Bugs. _ He must had been in the middle of one of his impressions when he was cut off by a small hand taking hold of Bill’s bedroom door- prying it open. Two, big brown eyes appeared in the frame- followed by a sweet, little smile. When Bill’s head turned, Richie half-expected him to shoo the boy away. _As a big brother would._  
  
But instead, he smiled, and motioned for Georgie to come inside.  
  
“Th-th-thanks for s-s-saving me guh-guh-Georgie,” Bill began, and shot a playful look in Richie’s direction. “I th-th-thought he’d never st-st-stop.”  
  
Richie’s face contorted into an unimpressed grimace. “I’m sorry you can’t appreciate real comedy, Bill.”  
  
Georgie laughed. Bill laughed. Then even Richie cracked a smile and began to laugh. 

That had been so long ago. 

He wasn’t sure if he was still breathing when he heard Georgie speak that day- and he was certain he hadn’t been when he saw Bill raise the gun and place it against his brother’s forehead. His heart stopped when he pulled the trigger. Then it fiercely began to pound in his chest once more as the corpse of little, Georgie Denbrough- the same boy he remembered peeking in through the crack of Bill’s bedroom door- began to wriggle terribly. Convulsing rapidly, molting, transforming into that thing.  
  
The clown.  
  
Georgie wasn’t the only one the clown had gotten. No, far from it. He remembered Beverly Marsh- though she had long since moved away. He remembered the fear in his stomach as they desperately searched for her in the depths of the sewers- and how the fear rose up into his throat as he saw her- hovering, lifeless, ethereal. Her eyes glazed over like milky glass. He didn’t understand what happened to her- none of them did. She had been alright in the end, sure- once they made it out. But she saw things- things she shouldn’t have. Saw them all grown up- and in the pit of Richie’s stomach, when he thought back to Neibolt and that day when It all happened, he knew that wasn’t all she saw. It couldn’t have been. Not with how she looked at Stan when he asked her what he was like as a grown-up. He saw the hesitation in her eyes. He saw the fear.  
  
To everyone who looked at him from the outside, Richie Tozier didn’t seem like he could tell his ass from his elbow when it came to reading the room. For the most part, they were right. _Beep beep Richie_ was a long-standing tradition to remind him when he had gone just a little too far. Richie could be oblivious to a lot of things- but there were some things he was harshly aware of. _Even if he wanted to forget, more than anything else._  
  
He wondered, perhaps, if the reason why he had been paying such careful attention to Beverly’s response was the direct result of what happened to Stan in the sewers. He would never forget it- and he was certain Stan wouldn’t, either.  
  
That thing latched around his face. His inconsolable screams and tears after they managed to get It away from him. He begged them not to go in there.  
  
_ He begged you, Richie._  
_You left him. It’s your fault._  
  
That must have been it. He cared so deeply because Stan had been so scared. That was it, that was all. You look out for your friends when they need you.  
  
_He needed you, Richie._  
_You weren’t there._  
  
Once, in a moment of particular tension, Richie had made a joke about what had happened. _How did it feel to finally suck face with a girl, Stan?_ He hadn’t laughed. In fact, for a moment, Richie thought he might just start to cry.  
  
He didn’t say anything else for the rest of the afternoon.

  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

Richie could be oblivious to a lot of things- but there were some things he was harshly aware of. _Even if he wanted to forget, more than anything else._  
  
Richie’s nightmares became less frequent as the years went on, but on occasion he would still wake up in a cold sweat- desperately clutching the sheets around him, as if their embrace would protect him from whatever might come his way.  
  
Sometimes he would dream about the face of the clown- peering over at him from the edge of his bed- and though he desperately wanted to scream, he was frozen. He could feel the hot heat of a scream welling up inside his throat, but the sound never came.  
  
Sometimes he would dream about the old Neibolt house- how it hadn’t been torn down yet, he would never understand. He would be standing at it’s doorstep, staring up at it- and the house would wind, and twist and turn before enveloping him, swallowing him whole. He would hear the clown laughing as he began to suffocate in its foundation.  
  
Most times, however, he had one nightmare in particular. It was always the same. It started out okay- he was riding his bike, and he felt excited. He felt excited because he was on his way to Stan’s house. The sun beating down on his back in warm waves, the fabric of his shirt rippling in the summer breeze as his tires glided smoothly around every corner. By the time he reached the porch of Stan’s house, he was practically beaming. He’d toss his bike carelessly on the front lawn, footsteps quick and eager as he reached the door. For whatever reason, he didn’t knock- he just let himself in.  
  
But the moment he’d step inside the home, everything would change. Normally Stan’s house opened into a very cozy, neat living room. But, this time- it was different. It was dark, and the floor creaked loudly as he stepped inside. There were no windows, anymore- instead, every wall was covered from floor to ceiling in paintings. Paintings of people- old people, he knew, because of what they were wearing. They all looked out in that uncomfortable way- where you couldn’t tell if their eyes were following you, or not. The normally pristine, and well-kept furniture- _always covered in some kind of protective plastic to save them from boys like Richie Tozier_\- was now visibly shredded and molding. Occasionally, cockroaches or maggots would wriggle out from the rips and dart around the fabric before nestling back into their holes. But those things weren’t what caused him the most unease- because Stan was waiting for him there- always in the same way. There he laid, convulsing and twitching on the floor while that Thing- the clown- had rows, upon rows of razor-sharp teeth latched firmly around his face. He could hear the boy screaming. He could see fountains of red pouring down his cheeks- pooling around his body in ripples. The clown would pull away, and his too-long smile would grin madly at him. Each tooth stained in red, yellow eyes manic and beady, body vibrating unnaturally and uncomfortably as if at any moment he would lunge. Richie would stand there, frozen- and he could feel the tears of fear and anguish welling up in his eyes.  
  
_“Richie…”_  
  
Stan’s voice was weak, wavering. He could see tears dripping from his eyes- melding with the blood steadily pouring from the deep holes contouring the his face.  
_“Richie, don’t leave me again- please-”_  
  
A blood-stained arm would shakily reach out for him as he begged. Stan’s normally soft, toffee eyes were wide in terror.  
  
_“…It’s your fault.”_  
  
The paintings were certainly looking at him, now. Their expressions horrifying grins- each with the same terrible, rows of teeth like the clown. Richie would draw in a sharp breath of air- and then it would happen. It would always happen.  
  
Stan’s scream was blood-curdling as the clown reared its head, and sunk its teeth into his heart.  
  
That’s when he would wake, tears in his eyes, chest heaving, and with an almost unstoppable urge to run to call the Uris residence just to hear Stan’s voice. Just to make him laugh. Just to know he was alright. 

  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

Richie could be oblivious to a lot of things- but there were some things he was harshly aware of. _Even if he wanted to forget, more than anything else._  
  
Sometimes, all Richie could think about was that beautiful boy at the quarry. Dewdrops on his back glinting in the golden hour light. His curls gently bouncing in the summer breeze. Sometimes he’d catch the boy trying to hide a grin at one of his jokes- a stupid one, no less. How often he opened his big mouth and spewed the most putrid words just for a laugh- just for a glance in his direction. The moment he caught sight of that smile, Richie’s stomach would swell with a familiar feeling he couldn’t quite put a name to. Was it pride? Certainly- pride must have been it. He could get even Stanley Uris to get a good chuck now and again- and that was no easy feat.  
  
But it wasn’t just pride. It was something more- and Richie knew that. Deep down, Richie Tozier was harshly aware that he loved Stanley Uris. His heart ached for him in a way he couldn’t describe, but he dared not speak it. He dared not speak about the way the gentle timbre of Stan’s voice echoed in his mind as he lulled to sleep. Certainly wouldn’t admit how a look from his tawny eyes would make his heart skip a beat. And he especially couldn’t bring himself to admit the real reason why his eyes constantly wandered- lingered. A look was harmless, right? Nobody would know- it could be his secret.  
  
But somebody did know.  
  
Because sometimes- despite the constant eye-rolling, and groaning at the trashmouth’s performance- Stanley Uris would look, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time using AO3 to post work, so forgive me if the formatting is odd! I hope to learn along the way.
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated! I've never really written fanfiction before, so this is me dipping my toes into a whole new ocean. I hope to update this work as often as University will let me. Cheers!


	2. Mockingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " A small smile crossed Stan’s lips even then as he thought about it. How Richie would always have a big, dumb smile on his face when he finally cracked his stoic expression. Stan never made it easy for him, but he would be lying if he said that seeing Richie smile like that- at him- didn’t bring a warmth into his cheeks. "

The end of summer was rearing its ugly head, and Stanley Uris was dreading what was to come next. Often times, the entirety of the school year felt as if he were just barely treading water. Summer was when he could finally reach the shore. There was always a heavy burden on his shoulders- though, of course he carried it without complaint. It was his duty, and all that. To make his father proud.

_Be a good boy._  
  
_A studious boy._  
  


Stan kept busy during the semester, to say the least. When he wasn’t in class, his nose was usually kept in his textbooks- often studying every night until his eyes were too strained to carry on. He spent many evenings scribbling furiously by the light of his trusty desk lamp- _always placed a taut 45 degrees from the table’s edge, as it should be_. Sometimes, he’d let himself have a little treat- a break- where he’d let his eyes wander towards his bedroom window, and look out at the horizon. He could see the treetops of the park in the distance, and further on from that he could see the faint outlines of downtown Derry. Though, mostly what he hoped to find wasn’t something you could see- but rather, something you could hear. A gentle coo of a morning dove, or perhaps the chirp of a chickadee. He’d let himself enjoy their lilted song for just a while, and then he’d go right back to work.

That’s not to say that Stanley Uris denied himself of all pleasures- certainly not. The weekend, much like the Summer, gave Stanley a chance to catch his breath and bring his head back up above water. On a Sunday morning you could usually find Stanley Uris on the Wallbridge Trail, sporting his hiking boots- _a generous gift from his father for his fifteenth birthday_\- a pair of binoculars, and a small pack filled with the essentials:

\- _The Peterson Field Guide to Birds of Eastern and Central North America (second edition)_  
\- A 500 ml canteen, filled with water  
\- A peanut butter sandwich, with the crusts cut off and cut into quarters  
\- 2 pieces of Hubba Bubba (one for the walk there, one for the walk home)  
\- A tiny burlap sack filled with sunflower seeds (in case he attracted the attention of a feathered friend)

Stanley Uris had gone birdwatching every Sunday for the better part of four years, and he didn’t intend on stopping. He liked birdwatching for the same reasons that most of his friends did not- it was quiet, required a careful eye, and meant getting up bright and early. He heard the little snickers and jabs- _Meet any other old folks on the trail today, Stanley? _\- but he didn’t let it bother him.

When he was out there in the woods, parked on an old stump with his field guide held neatly between his hands, he felt a sense of peace. He could smell the earthy tones of mossy rocks, sun-crisped leaves, and the soil he had unearthed on his walk. The way the breeze would gently brush his curls against his face, the cool of the earth beneath his feet, the way the light would dance though the trees- it all felt so strange, and magical to him. But, of course, the most magical thing about it was what he sought out to see- the birds. The way they would talk to one another- _and he was certain they did speak to one another, just the same as you or I _– their gentle, beautiful songs – he couldn’t think of a more perfect sound.

When he was out there- alone, but not at all alone- he could be the person he wanted to be. The birds expected nothing of him. Nor did the leaves of the trees, or the running river just a ways away. The birds knew him by no name- no reputation. To them, he wasn’t the Rabbi’s son. He wasn’t Crybaby Uris. _He certainly wasn’t the curly-haired queer._ He was just a boy- a human. Nothing more, nothing less.

Birdwatching gave him time to ponder- time to think. Even just the act of being out in nature made his mind feel a little more free. Free to ponder the thoughts that he often stashed away. Thoughts that, for whatever reason, felt much more chaotic and unwelcome in the confines of his bedroom. He didn’t want them there- they weren’t safe there.  
  
When his mind became particularly cluttered, and he couldn’t reach the safety of the trail, he’d let his mind’s eye whisk him away to a memory- a fond one. It was the first, and only time he had seen a mockingbird. He had spent all morning tracking what he had thought was a Cerulean Warbler- he followed the timber of the bird’s tone between trees, rocks, and riverbends- until he saw it. But it wasn’t a warbler at all- it was some black bird he had never seen before. He bent down, and quietly crept closer to the tree- brow furrowed as he gently thumbed through the guidebook in his hands. When the light hit the length of the bird’s back, the sheen of its feathers was a beautiful midnight blue. Its beak was a sharp grey, and its eyes a deep brown that looked like amber when they caught the light.

And then it did what mockingbirds do- it called in the same tone of the warbler, loud and free. Stan smiled at the mimicry, lips parted in awe. That type of Mockingbird wasn’t native to Maine- let alone The United States, but sometimes, if you were lucky, you could cross paths with a vagrant. He felt like the luckiest boy in the world, that afternoon. Quietly, he eased himself into the grass beneath the tree, looking up in wonder at the bird above. _Perhaps he was there on vacation_. Again, he listened to the mockingbird imitate the cry of the birds around him, and it couldn’t help but remind him of someone else. He closed his eyes, gently rested his head against the trunk of the tree, and thought about him.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While summer was ending, and with it their freedom, Stan couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread wash over him as he awoke that morning. He knew that morning was just one more tick on the calendar towards the dreaded day. _Only three more sleeps. Why can’t it just last forever?_

He shook the sleep from his eyes as he slid his legs out from his sheets- the right first, then the left- and pulled himself to a stand. With the utmost care, he bent forward and began to strip all of his bedding, folding each sheet into a neat pile. The soles of his feet gently slapped against the hardwood floor as he walked towards the linen closet- pulling from it a freshly cleaned bedding set, which he carried back towards his room in a hamper. This was a routine Stan frequented. Every two or so days, but no later than five, he would exchange his bedsheets for a fresh set. It came from a desire of cleanliness, but also from a want of comfort. There was nothing quite like crawling into a fresh, neatly made bed at the end of the long day. He had it down to a science, now- in a record two minutes, Stan had managed to wrangle his fitted sheet perfectly onto his mattress, tucking its folds underneath the corners of the bed. Next came the top sheet, which he would tuck under the end of the bed (to prevent his feet sticking out during the night, of course). He would fold the excess fabric daintily, ensuring each edge was straight and of equal length. Then came the pillows- he would fluff them and shape them, then slide them into their covers. Two pillows for each side- one blue, one white. Then the final, and arguably the most important, step- the comforter. Gripping the fabric in both hands, he would raise his arms up- the blanket billowing out like a wave. He’d do it ten, twenty, thirty times- until the way it rested on top of the bed pleased him. He would take care in making sure each edge of the blanket lined up with the frame of his bed, and then, and only then- would he breathe in the delightful, scent of freshly cleaned cotton, and know his work was done.  
What the day would hold for him, he wasn’t certain. The only thing that was certain was that he, and Richie Tozier, were supposed to meet that afternoon. The only thing about it was, Richie never told him where they were going to meet.

_I’ll call you, Stanny! Don’t you worry._

Stan’s eyes visibly rolled, sighing and shaking his head as he headed to the shower. Nobody ever called him Stanny except for Richie- and Richie only did it because he knew it’d get a rise out of him. Whether it was a sigh, a look of despair, or- in the odd case- an outburst- Stan couldn’t help but feed into him.

With one hand, he reached towards the tap and placed it on the cool side. It was a hot one that morning, and he figured a bit of cool water on his back might be refreshing.  
_Maybe I’ll just show up on your doorstep! I’ll just let myself in._

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he stepped under the shower stream. He breathed in the cool steam deeply, feeling his hair flatten and drip under the steady flow of water.  
“You would, too.” Stan said softly to himself. Though, it was really to the fictional version of Richie he was conversing with inside his head. He frequently had conversations in his head- they were easier to manage, there.

Stan took his time letting the water clean his skin, only stepping out when he had scrubbed every nook and cranny he could think of. Damp feet touched down on the folded tub-side towel, and he was quick to reach for another to dry out his hair. Bending forward, he jostled the fabric back and forth along his curls until they were only a little damp to the touch. He folded the towel back up neatly, resting it atop the tub’s edge for the time being. He took a step, and found himself in front of the mirror. He looked at himself for a while. He looked different with his damp hair- darker and almost brooding. A coy smile came to his face at the thought. Dragging a palm against the glass to remove the haze of the steam, he began the rest of his morning routine:

\- Teeth (brush for 1 minute on the top, 1 minute on the bottom, then thirty seconds in a circular motion around the gums)  
\- Hair (brush twenty times forwards, twenty times backwards, style as needed)  
\- Deodorant (two swipes, front and back, under each arm)  
\- Cologne (one spritz on each wrist, to be rubbed under jaw and ears)

Very rarely, if ever, did he deviate from his routine- but that morning, he did. When it came down to the last step of cologne, his damp curls gently starting to retake their natural shapes along his forehead, he hesitated. For a moment the thought of _“That’s not enough.”_ came into his mind. _Why wouldn’t it be enough?_ Any more would be far too much- nobody would like that.

_Richie might. _

His hand hovered above the bottle for a few seconds, before he lifted it to his wrists and continued the routine as usual. With one minor exception- he grazed his collarbones with an extra spritz of the scent, too.

_Just to switch things up._

After returning the bathroom to its previous, pristine condition, Stan headed back to his bedroom to decide on what to wear. After careful consideration, he slid on a striped button-up with short sleeves, tucking it into a pair of khaki shorts. Two socks, pulled up to his ankles- with a blue stripe the same hue as the stripes on his shirt. He smoothed out the fabric along his front, and headed down the stairs- his mind pondering what exactly they might get up to that day.

While Stan hung out with the rest of the losers plenty, he and Richie were keen on keeping each other’s company when they could. Unfortunately, Stan had to admit, Richie Tozier was probably his best friend. Unfortunately in the sense that Richie Tozier had a knack for pushing every one of his buttons- but he also had a knack for other things, too.  
There were some days since_ It_ happened that made Stan just want to crawl back in bed and never come out. Those were the dark days. The hard days. The days where he barely said a word, but nobody would notice, of course, since Stan was always such a quiet boy.

A fastidious boy.

_A scared boy. _

Nobody except for Richie. Richie would always notice. It was on those days, when smiling was the furthest thing from his mind, that Richie could get a little grin out of him. It’d take some poking and prodding, some tomfoolery - _Hey Stanny, you got a nickel? I’ll do a jig for ‘ya_ – and a little bit of careful empathy, but usually Richie could get a smile out of him. Even if it was just a little one.

A small smile crossed Stan’s lips even then as he thought about it. How Richie would always have a big, dumb smile on his face when he finally cracked his stoic expression. Stan never made it easy for him, but he would be lying if he said that seeing Richie smile like that- at him- didn’t bring a warmth into his cheeks.  
It was then there was a knock at the door, which snapped Stan promptly out of his retrospection. He began to make his descent down the stairs to answer, only to hear the creek of the front door, and the husky sound of his father’s voice speaking to somebody. He paused, and listened intently.

_“Richard, yes….Stanley is upstairs… Shoes, off, please…”_

He wasn’t expecting him to come so early- let alone come at all. He figured he would have gotten a swift phone call insisting that they meet at the cinema. While they were older, Richie’s love for the arcade hadn’t changed.

Stan was debating whether or not to run back up the stairs and pretend as if he had been waiting in his room, when he made eye contact with the boy- who was standing at the bottom of the stairs, head cocked to the side. Stan looked like a deer in headlights, after all.

“What the fuck’s up with you? You see a ghost or something?” Richie asked, a half-grin coming to his face.

“My shirt’s not that ugly, is it?”

Stan looked him up and down- a Hawaiian shirt overtop of a Duran Duran T-shirt. A typical style choice from Mr. Tozier. Stan gave him a half-smirk. “You don’t want me to answer that.” He returned. Richie pursed his lips, but a smile followed all the same.

“You’re just jealous, Stanny. Not everybody can look as good as me.”

Stan had to resist rolling his eyes, and simply shook his head as he turned his back and began to head back up the stairs, Richie following closely behind. “Thank God for that.” He remarked under his breath, prompting Richie to give him a swift kick to the back of his calf- although it was gentle.

“I heard that, _dick._”

The two boys reached Stan’s bedroom- as neat and tidy as ever. Richie almost seemed hesitant to sit down, knowing he was particular about keeping it a certain way. Still, he helped himself to a spot on his floor, crossing his legs as he watched Stan sit down at his desk.

“You can sit on the bed, you know.” Stan remarked, voice gentle as he glanced between the bed and the boy before him. Richie glanced over his shoulder at it- seeing how every fold on every sheet was crisp and intentional. He nearly shuddered. “Yeah, and risk the wrath of you beating me with your stupid bird book for making a crease in the fucking comforter? No thanks.” He replied, though he had a playful grin on his face as he said it. Stan turned a little pink at the remark. “I wouldn’t beat you.” He retorted, though his voice was soft- quiet. “ …I’d just hate you.” He added in, a coy, little smile coming to his face. It made Richie’s heart skip a beat, and he reached up to fix his glasses while he came to his senses.

“You could never hate me, Stanley.” Richie remarked, sounding firm- though behind the words there was a sense of insecurity.

_Everybody hates you, loudmouth._

_You left him in Neibolt. _

“Then you’d have no friends.” He teased, a big grin coming to his face.

“Hilarious.” Stan’s voice was arid, and his expression was disgruntled.

While Richie had used the pristine state of the bed as his reason for taking the floor- deep down, he knew the real reason why he couldn’t bring himself to sit on Stan’s bed.  
_I know your secret, Richie. Your dirty, little secret._

_In another boy’s bed, Richie?_

_You’re a dirty boy._

_You’re dirty. _

As a pit of self-loathing began to well in his stomach, he quickly did his best to change the subject. A mischievous grin came to his face as his hand dipped down into the pocket of his shorts. “I had an excellent idea of how we could spend this afternoon, Staniel,” Richie began, raising his voice in pitch as he put forth his best British accent. From his pocket, he procured a silver cigarette case, and Stan’s eyes widened in panic as Richie opened it up to reveal two hand-rolled cigarettes.

Marijuana.

Stan nearly jumped out of his seat, and was quick to shut the case just as quickly as Richie opened it, eyes darting between him and the doorway to his room.

“Are you crazy?” He hurriedly asked in a hushed whisper, his usually soft eyes now filled with panic. “If my dad even got a whiff-” he went on, hands clasped tightly around the box, trying to press it back towards Richie’s pocket.

“Not here, you idiot!” Richie retorted, doing his best- and failing- to match Stan’s quiet tone. Stan’s panic seemed to subside, and his dark eyes looked at Richie meekly through golden curls. “I figured we could go to the park. Maybe the quarry.” Richie reasoned, jostling the box back where he had gotten it from. “You know…if you want to.” He added in gently, seeming just a bit more shy now that the other boy had reacted so adversely to the suggestion.

It wouldn’t have been the first time Stan had gotten high with Richie. The first time was a bit of a blur, but he remembered it being after dark- sneakily taking drags on Richie’s back porch while his parents were out at the movies. He wasn’t sure if he liked it- but he wasn’t sure if he disliked it, either.

Stan looked down into his lap, and seemed contemplative. “We-we don’t have to if you don’t want to-” Richie began, seeming a little panicked that he might have been pressuring the other boy. Stan looked back up, close enough now- after wrestling to try and get the cigarette case closed again- that their knees were almost touching. Richie could see his forefinger tapping on the fabric of his shorts- something he did when he was unsure. Worried.

“I want to.” Stan said, sounding as firm as he possibly could.

_Don’t be such a baby, Stan. _

“Are you… sure?” Richie asked, brow furrowed as he took in his features. Stan had a particular look when he was worried- it was all in his eyes. How his brow would gently crease by the bridge of his nose, and the way his irises almost seemed to darken.

“Stan… I know you’re nervous.” He added gently- in a way that seemed more matter-of-fact than it did judgemental. This seemed to take Stan by surprise, and he sat back a bit. He turned a little red in the cheeks and looked away, as if he were embarrassed. “I just… I don’t want to get in trouble. We could get caught.” He explained, voice growing softer and softer as he went on. Richie just smiled. He reached over, placing his palm on Stan’s knee, and gave it a re-assuring squeeze. “We don’t have to.” He repeated, sounding more firm in it, this time. “We can just go and hang out. If you change your mind, I’ll still have them.” He assured him, before he realized he had been holding on to the other boy’s leg just a little too long. He was quick to retract his hand, trying, and failing, to casually put his hand in his pocket. It just looked awkward as his fingers forcefully fumbled into the fabric.

Stan’s expression seemed to soften, and he let out what sounded like a relieved breath of air. He smiled- gentle and sweet. Richie felt his heart flutter.

“Thanks Rich.”

Richie was quick to stand up, and clapped his hands twice, before placing a closed fist to his chest in a dramatic gesture. “Well, pip pip Staniel! There’s adventures to be had! Onwards and upwards!” He declared, loud and proud with his signature accent.

Stan rolled his eyes as he came to a stand, but Richie could swear he saw him smiling as they walked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shorter chapter that gives some insight into Stan's world, and a bit of interaction between the two boys. More to come as they head to the quarry in the next chapter!


End file.
